


Two by Three

by helena_s_renn



Category: Def Leppard, Greta Van Fleet (Band), Music RPF
Genre: Crack Pairings, Drinking, Jealousy, M/M, May/November, Open Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 12:49:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17467880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helena_s_renn/pseuds/helena_s_renn
Summary: Unusual hook-ups and a lot of posturing at an afterparty.Jesus H., they were like Tolkien Elves. Just look at them, so lithe, with their thick, flowing, umber hair....





	Two by Three

**Author's Note:**

> There was no likely GVF gig for any of DL to show up at. This one will have to be imaginary, and you can assume it happened shortly before Christmas this year (just after their real tours end/break). 
> 
> It might come across as hyper-critical of both the old rockers and the young hotties. It's not to be "mean", only my personal observations, compare and contrast. Only respect and admiration to both bands.
> 
> Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know! Don't compare them to Led Zepp! 
> 
> Sam's not shy! 
> 
> \-->From Sav's point of view.
> 
> Beta review by ChristianHowe. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

-2018, December

 

Apparently no one had told Greta Van Fleet ahead of time that there'd be aging rockstars attending their show. Sav had seen the entire progression tonight, at the lads' last gig before Christmas: the fascination, the waiting in line as if he weren't nervous, the moment Joe turned it from congratulations on your fine show, your rapid rise in success, your Grammy nominations, to that look that meant he wanted something, and he was fucking going to get it. 

Joe and the little frontman sat in the shadows of the darkened room where the after-party continued, each with several empty beer bottles in front of them, heads together. Every so often, even deeper in shadows, Sav could see a quick flash of glinting eyes or hear a murmur or hiss. 

It was going to be one of those nights. Fuck it, he should find a hook-up, too, but it was late. Up until five or ten minutes ago, he'd been content to observe and wait. Watching Joe flirt was one of his favourite pass-times when they were away from home, when it wasn't going a little too well. How was it that he hadn't seen the ulterior motive coming from miles away, being dragged across the ocean to see some up-and-comers.

Joe's gold-blond head tipped forward, his curtain of hair swinging out to brush against the mess of curls worn by the Greta Van Fleet singer. Both of them were so animated, speaking with hands and body language as much as their mouths. Reading it fluently, Sav wanted to laugh. Bitterly. He growled a chuff of disgust - at himself. So not like him! He was uncomfortable with that side of him that wanted to demand his partner keep it in his pants. He had no right. Joe had watched him under the circular stage through the grates in the floor and that had only been the beginning. It wasn't payback. Yes it was.

Which of them was Joe seeing in this kid - himself? They - referring to a much younger Joe in this case - both wailed in death-defying throat acrobatics. Joe was more of a screamer, and this Josh, that was his name, ululated like he was getting his back field plowed but good. Had he grown up on a farm or summat? Or was Joe seeing something reminiscent of Sav, back when it started? Oddball clothes, curly hair? Sav had never considered himself overshadowed, some of that due to height, similar upbringing, some to the year-and-a-half age difference, not the better part of four decades. Josh's alpha nature backed down for none of that and met the challenge, one that Joe was clearly enjoying.

Signalling for another drink, Sav prepared to abscond to their shared suite. It was a rarity these days, but he mentally braced himself to spend the night alone with a very good set of noise-reducing headphones sans Joe, in the second bedroom. They each had their own methods. When Joe pulled, there always had to be some degree of flaunting his catch. Sav preferred to participate in such activities far away from prying, watchful eyes.

His drink arrived in a covered cup with a pair of skinny straws sticking up through the lid. Making one last check that he hadn't left anything, Sav gathered up his swag. When he looked over at the singers again, two more of the band were standing in front of them. He sighed internally. Just look at them, so lithe, with their thick, flowing, umber hair. How did Joe always draw so much attention?

A short conversation out of his earshot followed, at the end of which Joe tipped his head once in Sav's direction - how the fuck had he known? The little singer nodded to the shorter of the two standing, whose thick floppy hair's wave indicated he'd returned the gesture while the taller one ducked his head. Sav recognised the latter as the bass player. He'd understood that three of the four were brothers, but not their birth order. Such things piqued his interest, since he and Leppard had been so young when they'd started. People changed massively in their development as performers and individuals within a few months. That was a given, as working, touring musicians. Naiveté flew out the window. Whoever was youngest was forced to catch up and keep up.

Yeah, he and Joe had been in the VIP section for actual VIPs at the show earlier and got themselves invited here; he now realised it was no coincidence that the afterparty was at the hotel they were staying in, but he hadn't paid as much attention to the band personnel as he should have till the last couple of songs. Before that, he'd been blown away by the music itself. First thing he'd noticed after the matching last names were their stage clothes. Little hippies! Lead singer in a... dress? Okay, another of Sav's bygone eras. The two flanking him wore skinny jeans more like leggings, the guitarist's short jacket a chunkier, looser style but hadn't Sav and Steve spent the late 80s in similar pieces? 

They'd changed clothes after the show, which only made sense. Sav always stumbled off stage drenched in sweat; it was a given. The shorter one, the guitarist, grabbed the bassist by his bony wrist and dragged him along to Sav's table, now empty of all but himself. Unbidden, his heart rate picked up watching them approach. Jesus H., they were like Tolkien Elves. Self-control was one thing but he was not immune to their milk-fed, radiant presence. 

After a pause and a blink they introduced themselves. Like he didn't know who they were, although in truth he had already forgotten all their names but Josh. The one that Joe was putting the moves on, whom he'd throw around like a rag doll, or they'd give each other sore throats or... he made himself breathe and smile faintly.

When he heard the one's name, he nearly laughed. Sam... and he was Sav.

So Sav introduced himself in turn and invited them to sit, which they did, next to each other and across from him. Their voices, without any of the grit of old men and their years of smoking, gambolled along in American Midwest without a hint of twang or Fargo. The bassist's dewy wide-eyed shyness was the picture of himself at 17. Under that, Sav was willing to bet, was a shared vision with his bandmates to take them all the way to the top of the charts, a revitalising force. The sex, drugs, rock'n'roll fastlane had barely touched them yet. It would.

Immediately, during the show, he'd noticed that Sam had the sort of chops he'd ascribed to himself, as a younger bloke, a standard that he'd side-stepped between months on the road and years in the studio with Mutt plonking out one note at a time. The kid, surely still a teenager, was lanky and, on stage, awkward as fuck. He'd clearly learned to play sitting down, which was conducive to technique but not to presentation. 

All of them needed work on that. Of course Sav had noticed. The older Leppard got, the more important it became that they cultivated a weary, care-worn sort of sex appeal along with their lasers, blokish camaraderie and showmanship. These guys shouldn't have to try very hard, they just needed to show some of that youthful skin and work on their moves a bit. Although Joe had pretty much been born knowing how to work a crowd, the GVF vocalist stood in one spot, bared his teeth, stuck out his jaw and wailed. Some of the youngsters' disingenuous antics were endearing: there were no mikes on their stage beyond the one in the singer's hand meaning any backing vocals were delivered by this Jimmy Page-style rocking guitarist leaning back, head on his brother's shoulder, singing into his mike. They didn't even have any wireless.

So far it had been enough, he supposed, but not forever. Sav well knew, they had to keep evolving, and the world moved so much faster these days. 

They also possessed no subterfuge. Sav seriously doubted that he was anyone's bass player hero much less this lot's, not with their sound and the ability he'd witnessed. They eschewed 'manufactured, soulless' music and threw the word 'organic' around a lot. By name or by association they knew who he was, which was probably more than he even expected. They were nice young men, though. Polite. Amusing, in a sort of puppy-ish way. Not totally innocent, not with a few scattered profanities and the unspoken language of close siblings flitting between them. Sav had to wonder exactly how far that went. Their impressive knowledge of early blues and folk music far outstripped Sav's, with his focus on glam and '70s rock.

It seemed like no time passed before Sav's drink was empty again, even of the melted ice at the bottom. He'd kept one eye on Joe. Although he tried to be unobtrusive about it, he probably came off as distracted. Belatedly, he saw the red cups in their hands, and that they were also swilling the dregs of ice at the bottom.

"You guys want another round?" he asked. It was usually him being plied with alcohol and having things thrown at him as tokens of regard. Despite his semi-divided attention, their comparison of styles and artists was the type of discussion he'd be happy to continue much later into the night.

"How about... in your room?" Sam piped up.

Sav blinked. That was bold. He watched the lad lean back and stretch, shirt riding up to reveal a slice of 100 percent hairless belly. He wasn't that old that he didn't know where his eyes were supposed to go... which they did. Fuck. Hipbones above leathers stretched tight. Well then.

Jake - the guitarist - snorted and said out of the side of his mouth to his brother, "Told you."

"Yeah, why not?" Sav addressed Sam, then Jake: "You the chaperone?"

The kid laughed, softly, his smooth face with the slightest shadow of stubble over his upper lip somewhere between earnest and curious with a touch of sly. "Nope. Interested third party."

Sav's eyebrow crawled up his forehead. To watch and witness? Or more? He turned to Sam again. It had been so many years since he'd had to ask, "Are you legal?"

"Not to drink, here in the US..." That hadn't stopped him; he looked Sav right in the eye. It reminded Sav of their own Rick, back in the day. 'Not to drink', but for anything else, yes, was what he had meant.

God, what were they seeing when they checked him out... wrinkles, jowls, split ends, the asymmetrical irregularity of his eyes and mouth these days, craters in his chin. But Sav had never been, other than during a certain time frame, a less than confident man. He nodded. "Yeh coomin'?" he queried, Sheffield loaded into his intonation. Climbing to his feet, he tipped up his chin to indicate the direction they would all proceed.

They didn't hold hands or sling arms around each other's waists, not here. As they passed Joe's table, where the younger vocalist - in white jeans that left nothing to the imagination, and where had Sav seen that before?? - was performing a slightly more polished version of Sam's move, belying the source, Sav cut his eyes at Joe's, which were practically glowing in the dark. He was wearing eyeliner. Eyeliner! When had that happened? Sav's dick jerked in his leathers. They never resorted to that anymore unless someone chased them down into a make-up chair in pursuit of a gig or photo shoot. Their latest official tour photographer didn't care if they looked like wrinkled old codgers - he seemed to delight in it. Well, one could say this was a live show and Joe planned on performing tonight. No doubt.

Walking away, Sav swung his arse, flipped his hair, spread out his lats... he didn't adjust himself. Maybe he should have. Fuck, it was fun to bait his partner, 'specially when that bastard was up to his rock star tricks. No, it wasn't often but they had such fine raw material before them to shape and mold and teach, if only for one night.

He wondered which of them would scream the loudest.

 

Fin.


End file.
